He would never find Euron.
Long before the blood ritual even began, a lone longship had slipped out of Pyke under cover of the chaos.
At the same time, the rain grew heavier. Fat drops smacked the ground like thrown stones and stung like needles when they hit skin.
Black clouds swallowed the sky. Not a single ray of light remained.
Balon felt something shift. He jerked his head upward.
BOOM—
Thunder rolled like war drums. Lightning danced inside the clouds, turning the darkness into a roaring electric storm.
---
Outside Seagard
Daeron stood atop a high hill beside Caraxes. Silver lightning lit his face while huge raindrops hammered his cheeks.
"Skreee…"
"Skreeeee…"
Tessarion and Toothless had lost all their usual fire. They huddled together in the downpour, pressing close to their father and older brother for safety.
"What a storm," Daeron muttered, eyes narrowed with deep wariness.
Thank the gods he had left when he did.
The moment he felt the magic on the Iron Islands twist—water magic crushing everything else—he had wheeled Caraxes and fled.
If he had stayed… who knows what would have happened.
Hoofbeats thundered up the slope. Lord Jason Mallister rode in at the head of a column of cavalry, face tight with worry.
"Prince, what's happening?"
Jason had heard the dragons had returned alone. Even though he still stood with his liege Hoster Tully, he had a soft spot for the young Dragon Prince he'd met once before.
Daeron said nothing. He simply pointed.
Jason followed the line of his finger and stared out at Ironman's Bay.
The entire bay was a nightmare of black clouds, raging lightning, and sheets of rain so thick they looked solid.
"A storm!" Jason's usual calm cracked. "A full-blown tempest!"
For anyone who lived by the sea, a storm like this was the end of the world.
Even Seagard's coastal holdings would take heavy damage.
Jason spun back. "Prince—the Blackfish, Lord Randyll, Lord Paxter—are they still out there?"
No ship could survive that.
Daeron wiped rain from his forehead and kept his voice steady. "I warned them to pull back. If they were fast enough, they might have cleared Ironman's Bay."
Caraxes could cross the storm in half a day at full speed. The fleets, no matter how hard they rowed, were still slower than dragons.
They were probably still inside the bay when it hit.
"All we can do is hope they got clear of the worst of it and can find their bearings once they're out of the clouds," Daeron said.
He could offer no more help.
The two deadliest things in a storm were being capsized by waves and losing direction.
He couldn't fix the first, and he wouldn't risk fixing the second.
Flying back into that maelstrom to guide the fleets would be suicide. He would rather lose both fleets than risk himself and his three dragons.
Daeron shook his head. "The Ironborn really pulled out all the stops."
He had caught the scent in the air—briny, rotten, corrupt. Someone had used unnatural power. It reminded him of the Children of the Forest's "Hammer of the Waters," but weaker… and far more twisted.
"Times really have changed," he muttered. "Even the Ironborn can stir up something this big."
But a weapon that didn't care who it killed could only be used once.
He adjusted his cloak. "Let's get inside. Lord Jason has offered us shelter until it passes."
---
Days Later
Ironman's Bay lay calm again under bright sunlight.
The Redwyne fleet—purple grapes snapping on every mast—and the Shield Islands fleet—blue hands, white roses, silver shields—rode at anchor in the sheltered waters below Seagard.
When Daeron saw them, relief washed through him. Randyll, Paxter, Brynden, and the others were all alive.
But not all the ships had made it.
Rough count: four or five hundred men and a dozen longships lost.
"We were lucky to survive at all, my prince," Paxter said, still pale. "I'll see that the families of the dead receive proper compensation."
Daeron clapped him on the shoulder. "You did well to bring so many home."
Overall, the losses were within acceptable limits.
"I still can't believe a storm like that came out of nowhere," Paxter muttered.
Brynden, wringing out his soaked leather, cut in. "That wasn't a natural storm."
He had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and spent years as a sellsword. He knew the sea. Storms didn't just appear like that.
Daeron kept his own suspicions quiet. He bought fresh supplies from Lord Jason on credit, then ordered the fleets to turn west once more.
A storm this savage would have devastated the Iron Islands far worse than the mainland.
Perfect time to finish the job.
The two fleets sailed back into Ironman's Bay and appeared off Pyke in full strength.
---
Daeron gazed at the islands and his brows drew together.
The Iron Islands were a ruin.
Every common longhouse had been smashed flat. Lordly keeps and towers stood at crazy angles, roofs torn off, walls cracked.
But Pyke itself was the worst.
The famous castle built across the sea stacks had lost an entire pillar. The massive rock column had snapped in the middle and collapsed across the causeway. Another few feet and it would have crushed the castle itself.
"Self-inflicted," Daeron said without a shred of pity.
Horns sounded. The fleets anchored. The army poured ashore.
Yet the Ironborn who remained offered no resistance.
They moved like ghosts, silently gathering the bodies of their kin that the waves had flung across the rocks. Some corpses were bloated and white from days in the sea. Others had been smashed against the reefs and lay in pieces.
The soldiers who landed felt no urge to slaughter them.
"Prince… what are your orders?" Paxter asked, stunned.
Even the stone-hearted Randyll Tarly lowered his hand and told his men to sheathe their weapons.
A warrior did not butcher men who had already surrendered.
Daeron looked across the shattered island and gave a single nod.
"Secure the docks. Take half the men and gather every body. Burn them all on pyres."
His original goal had been to kill half the Ironborn and leave the rest terrified of him.
Looking around, he doubted even half were left alive.
They marched on Pyke.
The gates creaked open.
A single furious Ironborn lord stormed out.
"Damn you, Targaryen! My wife and children are dead because of your storm!"
Dunstan Drumm's eyes were bloodshot. His powerful frame still radiated Vitality, but it was frayed and weak.
House Drumm was gone. Old Wyk was gone.
He had no one left to blame except the greenlanders who had brought the dragons.
Daeron eyed the red Valyrian steel sword at the man's hip and raised an eyebrow.
"You've used special gems?"
"That's right!" Dunstan roared, drawing Red Rain. "Dragonspawn! I've heard of you—won two trials by combat. Face me like a man!"
Daeron smiled. "Gladly."
"Die!"
Dunstan's eyes flashed crimson. Muscles bulged under his armor as he charged, swinging the heavy blade in a two-handed overhead strike.
"Too slow."
Daeron stepped aside, drew Dark Sister, and drove the point straight through the side of Dunstan's neck.
The Ironborn lord froze. Disbelief filled his eyes.
He tried to turn his head to look at the prince. Blood sprayed. The world went red.
Thud.
The body hit the ground.
"Collect the corpse," Daeron said calmly. "Burn it with the others later."
He pried Red Rain from the dead man's fingers, tested its balance, and nodded with satisfaction.
"Nice little prize."
House Drumm's ancestral blade—Red Rain.
It wasn't a greatsword or a true longsword, but something in between—slender, elegant, clearly ancient. The blade was blood-red in the sunlight, rippling with that unmistakable Valyrian pattern.
The hilt was ironwood; the crossguard shaped like two skeletal fingers.
"I was hoping for Nightfall," Daeron admitted, "but this will do nicely."
He slid the sword into Dunstan's scabbard, then slung it on his own belt.
"Prince," Paxter called, pointing at the open gates.
A dozen Ironborn lords and captains stood just inside, watching the duel with dead eyes. None of them moved to help Dunstan. None of them cared.
Daeron read their faces instantly.
"They've surrendered," he said. "Let's go inside."